CHOMPERS’ & MUNCHERS’

This Emily in Paris kids book was all that was available in Paris, Charles de Gaulle airport...

the shops were selling everything imaginable... apart from a book that you might jot your thoughts down in...for fuck's sake! I guess it's because no one puts pen to paper anymore, but it's a sad state of affairs.

You can get cables for anything and everything in Charles de Gaulle FNAC attack... perfumes to mask the stench of war... or shirts to wear during the World Cup! The power games... I won't go on, because I've written about Celebration Capitalism before... and its twin brother Disaster Capitalism... pair of dirty bastards!

But, at the moment in France...in Paris...it is superficially Celebration Capitalism partying on the lounge TV screens... whilst the disaster merchants...Ursula von der Leyen (the pharmaceutical entrepreneur), and her mates, tuck into the profits that the wars they perpetuate generate on a daily basis… C'est sûr, Monsieur, et Madame, et Mademoiselle....if you can make that age in the war zone...Mademoiselle I mean. Damn, you see, I've tried to make a French joke type thing, but it's gone wrong. But fuck it, I tried!

I'm surrounded by blokes who dress in what they must imagine are smart casual business clothes... but, and this is the fuckery of it,  they don't wear socks, I kid you not! You know the type... expensive, boring shoes, and...NO socks...and chinos… or jeans… or slacks. Sockless in Moccasins... bland... dull... bland. But they think it's cool bless em. So leave them be.

Can still snigger though... they do at me...with my painted nails...big glasses, hat and unconventional shorts... so why not reciprocate.

Tick Tock Tick Tock

Only another three hours in this lounge...done two already... forgot my book… Twat!
Anyway, at least it forced me to buy this kiddie notebook and write.
I really don't get the myth that the French are sophisticated and stylish. I can't see it myself. I just see conservative and arrogant...a generalization of course. But generally, at least in Charles de Gaulle Airport Lounge, It’s all so fucking DULL.

The buffet is full of cakes too.
For a type one, that's shit!
The protein section seems to be missing.
Cheese and fucking cake...and Booze! Bien sûr, c'est ça! Merde!

I really enjoy people watching… and people eavesdropping...it is often where my ideas take root…a phrase, a sound, an annoyance...joy...boredom... loneliness...emptiness...it’s all in these lounges, where everyone is in transit... and often in transition... from one state to another... geographically or otherwise.

There should be a day where all bald-headed men paint their pate! It could be for a good cause, or it could be...just because it's a totally blank and unexplored canvas. I just thought I would slip that random, intrusive thought into Emily's Paris. Voila!

The funniest characters in here are the “I'm so sexy” women… and men. Treating grabbing a boiled egg and Diet Coke like it's a fucking catwalk... prancing across in their boring outfits...far from abstract....as in the Paris Fashion Week sense of the word...but veering more towards the abject...as in abjectly desperate for some kind of validation...even from the chompers’ and munchers’ at the buffet bar... searching to nourish some abstract/abject emotion that they can't yet name... so they search online for new Buffet outfits in the hope of a revelation.... malheureusement, usually it's some coleslaw on the white linen shirt... or a coffee stain on the fragile ego.

And then I see the overworked... underpaid workers... endlessly filling the buffet troughs...which rapidly disappear with each transiting mob of munchers’! Plates of food half-eaten, left on tables... or the floor... and these poor fuckers have to clean it up! It's fucking embarrassing to sit here sometimes. I gaze over at the bedlam of it all... but at least it's from the privileged and comfy position of a lounge seat.

TicK TocK TicK TocK

I've seen many faces today.

A man sits opposite me with his supplicant wifey fetching him food. He's a proper man type... no socks... beard... a kind of power business, pseudo, gangster type…TEMU suave.

I saw him glance at my painted nails, with added colourful flower stickers by Arielle.... and he alerts, his wifey to the weirdo, non-Manny Man type opposite... Oui. C'est moi !

I'm totally used to sad fuckers like him... so I smile and write about him as I observe the Peacock display. Ooh... wifey brings him a white wine and ice.... In fact, I'm getting Ray Winstone in Sexy Beast vibes. FNAC version of course!

 The catwalk continues....Tick Tock Tick Tock....